Last Night at Chateau Marmont (17 page)

Brooke’s mom laughed. “Maybe if you’re such an expert, you can explain these reality TV stars. I have a lot of trouble keeping them straight.”

Mrs. Greene sighed and turned the page, revealing a double-page spread of the teenage actors from the latest vampire movie. “I miss the
old days when Paris Hilton could be depended on to flash her panties and George Clooney would pull through with yet another cocktail waitress. I feel like I’ve been betrayed by a bunch of tweens.”

Brooke’s phone rang. She thought about letting it go to voice mail, but on the off chance it was Julian, she dug it out from her bag.

“Hey! I hoped it might be you. What time is it there?” She checked her own watch. “What on earth are you doing calling now? Aren’t you setting up for tonight?”

Although this was Julian’s fifth or sixth solo trip to Los Angeles since the
Friday Night Lights
party, Brooke still felt out of sorts with the time difference. By the time Julian woke up in the morning on the West Coast, Brooke had finished her lunch hour and was back at work for the rest of the afternoon. She’d call him the moment she got home in the evening, which usually put him right in the middle of meetings, and then he was always out to some dinner when she was going to bed and could never utter more than a whispered “good night” against the backdrop of glasses clinking and people laughing. It was only a three-hour difference, but to people working such opposite schedules, they may as well have been communicating across the international date line. She tried to be patient, but just last week, three nights had passed with little more than a bunch of texts and a quickie “Call you later.”

“Brooke, it’s crazy, all kinds of things are happening here.” He sounded wired, like he’d been up for days.

“Good things, I hope?”

“Beyond good things! I wanted to call you last night but by the time I got back to the hotel, it was already four in the morning your time.”

The pedicurist finished cutting the cuticles and yanked Brooke’s right foot into her lap. She squirted a bright green soap onto a pumice stone and raked it roughly over the sensitive middle of the foot. Brooke yelped.

“Ow! Well, I could use some good news. What’s up?”

“It’s official: I’m going on tour.”

“What? No! I thought you said the chances of that happening before the album came out were slim to none. That record companies don’t really sponsor them anymore.”

There was a moment’s pause. Julian sounded irritated when he said, “I know I said that, but this is different. I’ll be linking up with Maroon 5 in the middle of their tour. The lead singer of their first opener had some sort of breakdown, so Leo got in touch with some of his people at Live Nation, and guess who got the slot? Supposedly there’s a chance to become the second opener if that band goes on tour separately, but even if that doesn’t happen, the exposure is ridiculous.”

“Oh, Julian, congratulations!” Brooke tried to gauge her own voice to make sure she sounded excited and not devastated. With the odd way her mother was staring at her it was difficult to tell if she was succeeding.

“Yeah, it’s pretty insane. We’re going to spend this week in rehearsals, and then we’ll hit the road. The album will drop in the first few weeks, which is awesome timing. And, Rook? They’re talking real money.”

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Real money. A percentage of all ticket sales. Which would jump even higher if we ever make second opener. Considering Maroon 5 is selling out places like MSG . . . it’s an insane amount of cash. And it’s weird”—his voice got lower—“it’s like people are always looking at me. Recognizing me.”

The pedicurist slathered on warm cream and began to knead Brooke’s calves. Brooke wanted nothing more at that moment than to press End on her cell phone, recline her massage chair, and enjoy the foot rub. She felt nothing but anxiety. She knew she should’ve asked about the fans and the press, but all she could manage was, “So rehearsals start this week? Aren’t you coming home on the red-eye
tonight? I thought I was going to see you tomorrow morning before work.”

“Brooke.”

“What?”

“Please don’t.”

“Please don’t what? Ask when you’re coming home?”

“Please don’t ruin this for me. I’m really, really excited—this is probably the biggest thing since the album deal last year. Bigger, maybe. In the grand scheme of my entire career, does another six or seven days really matter?”

Six or seven days until he came home, maybe, but what about being on tour? The mere thought of it made her panicky with dread. How would they deal with that? Could they? But in the very same moment she remembered the night, years earlier in Sheepshead Bay, when only four people showed up and Julian could barely contain his tears. Not to mention all the hours they’d already logged apart during their hectic work schedules, all the stressing about money and time and the what-ifs they threw out when one of them was feeling particularly negative. That sacrifice, it was all for this, for right now.

The old Julian would’ve asked about Kaylie. When she’d told him all about the girl’s hysterical phone call the month before and how she had researched fast-food alternatives and e-mailed them to her young patient, Julian had hugged her and told her how proud he was. Just last week Brooke had e-mailed Kaylie to check in with her and had been concerned to receive no reply. She followed up again a day later and Kaylie wrote back that she was starting on some sort of cleanse she’d read about in a magazine, and that she was certain this was the answer she’d been looking for. Brooke almost jumped through the computer screen.

Those goddamn cleanses! They were a health risk for normal adults, but they were an all-out disaster for the still-growing teenage population who seemed forever drawn to their celeb testimonials
and promises of quick and miraculous results. Brooke had immediately called Kaylie to read her the riot act—she had it memorized by now, since cleanses, fasts, and juice diets were such favored Huntley methods—and was relieved to discover that Kaylie, unlike most of her classmates, was actually receptive to what she had to say. She pledged to check in with her once a week throughout the summer, and she was hopeful that as long as she got back to their regular sessions once school resumed, she could really help this girl.

But Julian didn’t ask about Kaylie, or her work at the hospital, or Randy, or even Walter, and Brooke held her tongue. She chose not to remind Julian that he’d only been home a handful of nights the past few weeks, and that most of those he’d spent either on the phone or at the studio in seemingly never-ending conversations with Leo or Samara. And, most challenging of all, she forced herself not to inquire about his tour dates or ask how long he might be on the road.

Almost choking from the effort of it all, she simply said, “No, Julian, it only matters that you get this right. This is truly great news.”

“Thanks, baby. I’ll call you later today when I have more details, okay? Love you, Rookie,” he said with more tenderness than she’d heard from him in a while. Julian had started calling Brooke “Rook” when they’d first started dating, which had naturally segued to “Rookie.” Her friends and family began using it themselves after they overheard Julian call her that, and although she often rolled her eyes or feigned some sort of displeasure, she felt an inexplicable gratitude to Julian for giving her this affectionate nickname. She tried to focus on that and not the fact that he’d hung up without so much as asking how she was doing.

The manicurist slicked on the first coat of polish, and Brooke thought the color looked too garish. She thought about saying something but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Her mother’s toenails were painted a perfect shade of pinkish-white, a color that looked both chic and natural.

“Sounds like Julian got some good news?” Mrs. Greene asked, placing the magazine facedown in her lap.

“He sure did,” Brooke said, hoping her voice sounded brighter than she felt. “Sony’s sending him on a warm-up tour of sorts. They’re rehearsing in Los Angeles this week and then they’ll be opening for Maroon 5, so it’ll give them a chance to practice in front of audiences before they go on tour themselves. It’s a huge vote of confidence on their part.”

“But it means he’ll be around even less.”

“Yep. He’s staying out there the rest of this week to rehearse. Then maybe he’ll come home for a few days and then he’s off again.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“It’s pretty much the best news he could’ve gotten.”

Her mom smiled as she slid her finished feet into the salon-provided paper flip-flops. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Brooke’s phone pinged. “Saved by the bell,” she said cheerily.

It was a text from Julian. It read: “Forgot to tell u: they want me to get new clothes! They say my look doesn’t work. Total nightmare!”

Brooke laughed out loud.

“What is it?” her mom asked.

“Maybe there is justice after all. I guess the publicist or the marketing people or someone is saying that Julian’s ‘look’ doesn’t work. They want him to get new clothes.”

“What do they want him in? I can’t exactly see Julian in Michael Jackson military jackets or MC Hammer pants.” She looked proud of her pop culture references.

“Are you kidding? I have been married to him for five years and can count on two hands the number of times I’ve seen him in anything besides jeans and a white T-shirt. He’s going to struggle with this. Big-time.”

“So let’s help him!” her mom said. She handed her credit card to the woman who presented her with the bill. Brooke tried to grab her own wallet, but her mother waved her away.

“Trust me, there is no way on earth Julian is going to agree to a new ‘look.’ He’d rather die than go shopping, and he’s more attached to his jeans-and-white-T-shirt uniform than some men are to their children. I don’t think Sony knows what they’re up against, but they are definitely
not
going to convince him to start dressing like Justin Timberlake.”

“Brooke, sweetie, this one can be fun. Since Julian’s never going to buy anything himself, let’s go shopping
for
him.” Brooke followed her mother out the door and directly into the subway stairs. “We’ll buy him stuff he already has, just nicer. I have a brilliant idea.”

Two trains and two stops later, the women exited at Fifty-ninth Street and entered Bloomingdale’s from the basement level. Brooke’s mother confidently led the way to the men’s department.

Her mom held up a pair of classic boot-cut jeans in a vintage wash. Not too dark, not too light, perfectly faded, and without any annoying patches, zippers, holes, rips, or weird pockets. Brooke felt the fabric. It was surprisingly lightweight and soft, possibly even softer than Julian’s beloved Levi’s.

“Wow,” Brooke said, taking them from her mother. “I think he’d actually love these. How did you do that?”

Her mother smiled. “I dressed you kids pretty well when you were younger. I guess I’ve still got it.”

It was only then Brooke noticed the price tag. “Two hundred fifty dollars? Julian’s Levi’s are forty bucks. I can’t get him these.”

Her mother snatched them out of her hand. “Oh yes you can. And you will. You’re going to get him these and a couple other pairs. Then we’re going to march right over to the clothing section and get him the softest, best-fitting white T-shirts we can find, and they’re probably going to cost seventy dollars each, and that’s okay. I’ll help you cover the cost.”

Brooke stared at her mother, dumbfounded, but Mrs. Greene only nodded. “This is important. For all sorts of reasons, but espe
cially because I think it’s crucial right now that you’re there to help and support him.”

The bored salesman finally sauntered over. Brooke’s mother waved him away.

“Are you suggesting I’m not supportive of him? That I don’t help him? Why have I been working two jobs for four years now if I’m not completely and totally behind him? What do a few pairs of jeans have to do with it?” Brooke could hear her voice growing almost hysterical, but she couldn’t help it.

“Come here,” her mother said, holding open her arms. “Come here and let me hug you.”

Whether it was her sympathetic look or just the unfamiliar feeling of being embraced, the moment she felt her mother’s arms close around her, Brooke started to sob. She wasn’t sure why she was crying. Aside from Julian announcing he wasn’t coming home for another week, nothing was really that tragic—everything was actually really great—but once she began, she couldn’t stop. Her mother hugged her tighter and smoothed her hair, murmuring comforting nothings the way she had when Brooke was little.

“There’s a lot of change happening right now,” she said.

“But all of it’s good.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not scary. Brooke, sweetheart, I know you don’t need me to point this out, but Julian is on the cusp of becoming a nationally known musician. When that album comes out, your entire lives are going to be turned upside down. Everything up until now is just the warm-up.”

“But it’s what we’ve worked toward for so many years.”

“Of course it is.” Mrs. Greene first patted Brooke’s arm and then cupped her face with one hand. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t really overwhelming. He’s already away from home a lot, your schedules have been thrown into chaos, and there are all sorts of new people on the scene, weighing in, giving opinions, intervening in your business.
It’s probably only going to intensify, both the good stuff and the bad stuff, so I want you to be prepared.”

Brooke smiled and held up the jeans. “And I’m preparing by buying him more expensive jeans than I wear? Really?” Her mother had always been more into clothes than her, but even she didn’t spend recklessly or to excess.

“That’s exactly right. There’s a lot you’re not going to be a part of in the next couple months, due only to the fact that he’s going to be traveling and you’ll be working here. He’s probably not going to have a tremendous amount of control over his own life, and you aren’t either. It’s going to be tough. But I know you, Rook, and I know Julian too. You guys are going to get through this, and once everything settles into more of a groove, you’re going to be great. And please forgive me for meddling in your marriage—I am hardly an expert here, as we all know—but until this crazy time has passed, you can make it easier by getting involved in any way you possibly can. Help him brainstorm marketing ideas. Wake up in the middle of the night when he calls, regardless of how tired you are—he’ll call more if he knows you want to hear from him. Buy him fancy new clothes when he’s told he needs them but doesn’t know where to start. Screw the cost! If this album sells half as well as everyone’s predicting, this little shopping spree won’t even be a blip on the radar screen.”